


Still There

by Meysun



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Conflicted Thorin Oakenshield, Death, Dworin Week, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War, You can read it as Dworin or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A not so short one-shot written for Dworin-week, that can be read as Dworin or not.<br/>Strangely enough, even though I just looked at the prompts, I think that indeed, it contains Secrets, Jokes, Training, Encounters with other races, Conflict/Reconciliation, Hurt/Comfort and probably a Treasure as well...<br/>It is mostly an experiment. I hope you will enjoy it still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still There

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this fic as Dworin or not. There are so many forms of love that every one should be able to find what he seeks...  
> In my headcanon, Dwalin is five years older than Thorin. He also grew up in the Iron Hills, while Balin chose to follow Thrain in Erebor. The rest of the allusions here can be found in my main fic "The King of Carven Stone", even though it is not part of the Dworin-fandom.  
> Thank you for reading and allowing me to share this experience, and enjoy I hope.

  


*****

  


_**Erebor,** _ _**T. A. 2758** _

  


He could live with that.

Thorin's hand found stone and he leant upon the wall, heavily, his small legs buckling under him. His chest quivered and he bit his lip, trying his best to swallow back tears - he would not make Dáin and Dwalin the favour.

He hated them. Hated them.

He hated _him_.

For the way he had just picked him up like a feather, like a bag of wheat, and tossed him towards Dáin, laughing all along. For the way they had made fun of him. The way they had made him _fall_. For the way they both made him feel so small – and Thorin was fed up with feeling small, fed up with being denied to be part of something else that his room and his ' _amad_ and his little brother, and ' _adad_ and the training room and sometimes grandfather.

But he could live with that. And without him.

He hated him, anyway.

And so, when someone found him, curled up against the wall, and picked him up – _again_ – to bring him to Óin who soon cleaned the graze on the Dwarfling's temple, Thorin vowed, silently, that he would never let him close again.

And it did not matter it hurt. It did not matter he also remembered, deep inside, a hand against his face and a broad chest he had leant upon, for several dazed seconds, because he had still been silly enough to trust him and his closeness.

He _could_ live without Dwalin's friendship.

  


  


*** ***

  


_**Erebor, T. A. 2766** _

  


He could conquer this.

The awkwardness. The shame of breaking his word, of having to talk to them, to welcome them here – to show them he had grown.

He could bear it, that sparkling tease in Dáin's eyes crooning nothing but _T_ _old you so_. And the way he clearly thought him boring, stiff and unable. Dáin did not know him, just expected him to stumble, and Thorin knew deep inside that to show him he cared meant losing his ground. Better boring than anxious, better stiff than vulnerable.

So when he heard Frerin giggle along with Dáin, knowing with utter surety that he was the cause for their new-found bond, Thorin just swallowed.

He would conquer this. As soon as the greetings would be over, he would withdraw. Not in his room, he couldn't, he wouldn't. In his own mind. He did that all the time. Whenever it just became too much – he knew how to focus just enough on what was going on to give appropriate, non-committal answers that made him _look_ there, while his mind was roaming unexplored lands instead. Lands he had read about, and wanted to discover.

And adornments, as well. On plates, on scabbards, on shields and on bracelets. He loved the forges, loved the way his mind could focus on metal and fire, the way his hands tried to express what he thought, and felt, so as to carve it deep into silver and _m_ _í_ _thril_.

The way he missed his ' _amad_ , and felt so guilty in wishing it could pass. The way his ' _adad_ felt far away, so distant, even with his hand trailing through his hair and his quiet kiss on his brow. The way maps and training lessons and books and work filled his days but not his heart – but this was unacknowledged, never to be thought and voiced, because it should not be so.

After all, he was the heir. He had all a Dwarf could wish for. He did not need anyone to share – he already had his brother, and sister, and his father, and Balin.

Balin who was pushing _him_ to step forward. Who was talking lightly, eager to make them meet.

And Thorin found he could barely bear it.

That silence, the awkwardness of it.

It made him want to lash out, to run, to cry out – he did not need him, did not need to see approval in his eyes or _any_ form of closeness. He just had to welcome him, and be done with it.

But when his sister stepped up to him and hugged him, Thorin thought his heart would break. She was _his_. She was the only one looking at him with utter adoration and trust – that form of all-encompassing love he vaguely remembered from his ' _amad_ , that kind of love that made him think he was able to conquer anything.

He wasn't.

He felt empty, and hollow, and cold, and so lonely it hurt.

So he pushed Dís away, when she came back. Forced her to go away, and welcome Balin's family, and faced him, in the end. Dwalin. His elder cousin that was not making the slightest move towards him, who had come here to take Balin's attention, his sister's love and his brother's jokes, along with Dáin.

Who had just conquered it all.

“You have not changed, have you?”

The words rippled through Thorin's chest and he stiffened all over.

“What do you mean?”

His voice was icy, as it should be. He could not let him see. He just had to go through these few words, and to withdraw.

“Still see offence where there's no harm meant.”

And was not fair. The way his voice was so kind it made his throat constrict, painfully. The way he was looking at him – truly _looking_ at him, his brown eyes sweeping his face and staying there, because he was strong, and steady, and determined.

The way he suddenly made everything simple, with a few words.

Apologizing for what happened, ages ago. Telling him he was still the one his sister loved most. Taking that small step towards him that allowed Thorin to yield, finally, and hug him in that boyish, childish way he only ever used with Balin.

His chest felt exactly the same - the small Dwarfling Thorin still was did not allow himself more than a few seconds to assess it, but somehow his own chest unravelled, and a laugh left his lips as Dwalin teased him.

The first of Dwalin's jokes – that wonderful way he had to laugh _with_ him, and not about him.

That day Thorin was utterly convinced that, together, they would conquer the world.

  


  


*** * ***

  


_**Iron Hills, T. A. 2770** _

  


He could reach him.

Thorin's body ached, and everything felt wrong – the pain in his chest, the dizziness in his head, and the cold the cold the cold. But he had heard his voice call out his name and this was the only thing that mattered, the only way for his will to be roused again.

So he got up, and stumbled, and suddenly he was there again – against that chest he knew, so warm and broad, between these strong arms he had missed so much, feeling caring hands against his back and stifling a sob.

He was there, but it did not feel real, did not feel entirely right. He was so dizzy, he felt so weak. He was shivering, and his mind was not running properly. The only words he could think of were _D_ _o not leave me_ , and they did not seem appropriate, these were no words for a friend and cousin, these were childish and he was no child anymore, because children died and he had not died, had he now, he was there and had reached him, or maybe he was still out there and was turning mad, just like his ' _adad_ , just like everyone…

The nausea hitting him in the gut felt real, though, and brought him on his knees, retching helplessly. It hurt, it felt awful, but even as his very strength seemed to leave his body with every sickening wave, Thorin was aware of hands around his body, strong arms keeping him upright, and the solid, warm weight of his chest against his back.

“Don't leave me.”

The words broke through his chattering teeth, through the nausea, through the fog in his mind and the chills shaking his small body. Through the heat Thorin felt on his cheeks and forehead, just before a new wave broke him for good, because he was vomiting blood.

Perhaps this was the bargain they both struck with Mahal that day. Dwalin not leaving him, and him trying to reach him, no matter what. Because even as fever wrecked Thorin's body and mind, even as his lungs almost failed him, even as, slowly, he began to recover but was still plagued by fever-dreams and dizziness and coughing fits and overwhelming weakness, the only thought giving him a small illusion of surety was the fact that he had reached him.

Had reached these arms that never failed to wrap him in their warmth and safety. This chest that would ever be the only true shelter in his life, it's strong heartbeat lulling him to sleep even as sweat drenched his forehead and fever overwhelmed him. These fingers that trailed through his hair, steadily, lovingly, keeping him grounded and there.

He had lost the Mountain, his home, his ' _amad's_ grave, his ' _adad's_ sanity, his grandfather's ability, his people's wealth, so many of his people's lives, his faith his hope his trust his childhood his laughter his dreams his confidence his strength and aye, his mind as well, probably…

But he still had reached him, and it was enough for Thorin to try and cling to him and life, and whatever fate was awaiting him.

Because he had reached him.

  


  


*** * * ***

  


_**Dunland, T. A. 2774** _

  


He could repress it.

That strange feeling in his lower gut, pooling into his stomach, causing his legs to stiffen because he felt himself grow hard – straddling Dwalin he had just brought down on the ground, Dunland's red sun throwing bloody shadows on the hills and trees.

Thorin knew it was not love. It was not desire. It was just pure, rough, animal need, and he _hated_ it, hated to think his body could just decide for him what it required.

He was not in love with his best friend. He could not even picture themselves together or doing anything more than sparring, wrestling or lying close. And besides, he was not even matching Dwalin. He was still thin, and awkward, with a hitching voice and stubble instead of a proper beard. And he hated his body for what it was doing to him, for the way it _wanted_ , desperately, when all he desired was to hide in the ground.

Thorin swallowed, feeling a shiver run down his spine and his ears begin to turn red. He quickly let go of Dwalin's shoulders, and made a move to free him. But his cousin and best friend just reached out for his hip, brown eyes staring up at him.

“Hey...”

Dwalin knew. Of course he did. He was the one who had explained to Thorin what exactly it was that was going on in his body, every morning, and some moments just like these where every coherent thought seemed to be dissolving into all-consuming, burning and silly, _silly_ need that just screamed for touch.

“Don't be ashamed.”

It felt so easy. The sun was setting, its bloody rays slowly turning dark. They were alone on the training ground, and Dwalin's hand on his hip was… Was…

“I'm not… It… I don't...”

Thorin's voice sounded slurred and he was not sure if it was panic or something else. Because he had to repress that and was not sure to achieve it. Because his stomach twitched with either nausea or… something else pooling deep inside his gut. Because his legs shook when he tried half-heartedly to get up, finding out as he failed to do so that the only thing he wanted was to keep close to that hard, warm body. This hand on his hip…

“I'm not in love with you.”

He whispered these words as Dwalin's other hand came up, grounding him against him, and the warmth of his fingers against his hipbones was almost too much.

“You don't have to be.”

Dwalin smiled back his answer and through that pulsing heat twisting his insides and causing his breath to hurry, Thorin felt his own hardness being matched by another. He paled slightly as Dwalin's apparent need brushed his thigh and tears rose to his eyes – because this was so shameful and inappropriate and _not right_ , but above all because he could not bring himself to move, and simply wanted more.

“Thorin, it is alright. It does not have to mean anything…

\- But I…”

His head was reeling. It was not fair. Not fair to make it so easy. Not fair to make it so hard for him to repress what suddenly appeared as the best and simple way to be together. Dwalin's hands were so warm… and steady… and his thumbs should not feel as exquisite against his hipbones, causing him to shudder.

“Don't… please…

\- Hey. You don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

_I want to be closer to you._

But Thorin never said the words. Instead he simply closed his eyes. Put his hands back on Dwalin's shoulders – just in case someone was discerning their shadows, so that they could think they were still wrestling, or… whatever two not-yet-Dwarrows-but-no-more-Dwarflings were supposed to do together.

Thank Mahal it was dark, Thorin thought, and then, as his thigh brushed against Dwalin's hardening length, as he felt his own need pulse through his body, causing him to stiffen and to breathe in a strange, wild, wonderful way… Then Thorin moved, ever so slightly, until their lower bodies rubbed gently against the other.

He never took off his clothes, and Dwalin never shed his. He never reached out for Dwalin's hardness, and kept his hands on his shoulders, trying to keep grounded, trying to let the warmth of his skin become stronger than the shame. And Dwalin's hands never left his hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles allowing Thorin's world to blur, finally.

And when he became unable to repress what his body wanted so badly, Thorin simply grew still, his fingers curling against Dwalin's tunic, his back arching off. He vaguely felt Dwalin move, faster, more sure than he ever was, against him, close, so close… and then he lost it. Boundless pleasure pooled from his very gut into his hardness, into his shaking legs, spreading through his stomach and back, and Thorin knew he was spilling, and shaking all over, and that Dwalin was probably doing just the same, and that he should have repressed it and that the shame of it would _kill him_ … but it simply felt too good, almost too much, and it was so much better than any fumbling attempt in the darkness…

He ended up lying on Dwalin's chest, his face buried deep into his shoulder. He did not remember when the wave ebbed, when bone-deep tiredness replaced fire, when hurried breathing led to silent sobs, when Dwalin's hands left his hips to brush soothing circles on his back.

“I am sorry”, Thorin whispered, and his voice sounded brittle and hoarse and so full of shame it hurt. “I never meant to… I never should have… I… used you.

\- Hey. Don't you dare. Don't you dare, Thorin.”

Dwalin's voice was earnest, and there was a firmness there causing Thorin to look up, his cheeks still hot and wet. He was still trembling, and his cousin steadied him – warm palms against his chest, not teasing this time, simply holding him.

“You never used anyone. _Never_. You just gave your body what it needed, and allowed me to do the same. And it has nothing to do with shame. Nor does it mean you have to love me, or I you.”

Thorin's breath was uneven, and he was shaking uncontrollably, but he nodded. And Dwalin gently freed himself from Thorin's legs, sitting up, taking him in his arms so as to hug him, until his shivers ebbed slightly.

“I'm sorry”, he said, tiny-voiced and exhausted, curled up against Dwalin once more. “I'm sorry. I… don't think I want that again. It is enough. You. This. It is enough.

\- Yes”, Dwalin simply answered, and Thorin tightened his embrace around him.

“You don't mind?

\- No.” - and strangely enough, Dwalin was smiling. “I don't. I never mind, with you. Don't have the time…

\- Hey...”

Thorin punched him in the back, without lifting his head. He knew he should be feeling something like awkwardness, shame, or anger against himself – because he should have repressed it, and could almost see his grandfather's cold eyes drilling through him.

But he could not.

Because it felt too good, Dwalin's arms around him and that certitude that he truly did not mind, that no matter how weak and dirty and needy he was, he still had him at his side, smiling, teasing and holding him.

“Get lost”, he whispered, deep into the rough fabric of his tunic, as Dunland's darkness engulfed them all, the two of them and their harmless secret that was love even when it wasn't.

And as Dwalin made sure to rub his almost-bearded cheek hard against his brow, Thorin found he was also unable to repress a smile.

  


  


*** * * * ***

  


_**Misty Mountains, T.A. 2794** _

  


He could get him out of there.

Panic built up in Thorin's chest, and his breath hurried, but he bit his lip and tightened his grasp around Dwalin's wrists – strong, tall, unmoving Dwalin who felt so warm and heavy against his back. Too heavy…

Sweat fell into Thorin's eyes, sweat and blood probably, not his own, not this time oh Mahal, it must be Dwalin's, and Dwalin's blood trickling into his hair and neck could only mean that the explosion had reached his face as well…

Thorin gasped, feeling his heart beat frantically in his chest – but he kept running, or maybe just stumbling as fast as he could, dragging them both out of there, out of these terrible tunnels roaming with Orcs and rusted blades and shrieking beasts and blood, blood, blood…

He reached daylight like a drowned man claws for air, and did not even bother to turn. He did not mind the pain. The strain. Not even the fear. He had to get them both out of there.

And so Thorin ran. Or stumbled. Or walked. Staggered back, to tents he would never have thought to be safer than rocks, but they were, they were…

He moaned when someone took Dwalin's weight from his back, and desperately tried to get up, but someone was holding him down, and the firm grip on his bruised shoulders was enough to make him sag back on the ground.

“Shhhhh….”

Thorin's lungs burned, and ached. He was coughing now – because of his desperate run, because he still smelt the explosion, still heard Dwalin's muffled scream, and because he remembered his own frantic, panicked moves as he tried to shield them both with his blade, taking their foes down one after the other until enough corpses piled for them to withdraw…

Enough corpses to get them both out of here…

“Thorin, you are hurt...”

But he just shook his head. It was not his blood. Not his blood. It was Dwalin's. Dwalin's who lay there his face covered in gore, unmoving and hurt, injured, bleeding…

“Thorin...”

His brother's voice was so soft. It hurt. It made Thorin's chest tighten so much he barely had enough air left to breathe. He could not breathe. He cried instead – low, deep sobs he made sure to stifle into Frerin's tunic, allowing his brother to cradle him against his chest.

The sun was low when Thorin finally allowed them to remove his chain-mail and bloodied armour. He was covered in blood. Black blood that stunk and made him want to gag, and red blood as well.

Dwalin's.

And his own as well, it seemed. There were countless small wounds on his shoulders and arms, and on his thighs. Bits of the shattered rocks and metal had reached him too – but Thorin barely winced when Óin began to clean his wounds, and did not even stir when he wiped away the blood oozing from a deep cut in his scalp.

Nothing mattered but Dwalin.

Thorin shook his head when Óin handed him a cup and the healer did not insist. None of them spoke as he stitched him up, wrapping his wounds into clean linen. And Thorin relished the pain.

Pain was lulling his mind away from Dwalin. Dwalin who had been lying there, unmoving – the echo of his muffled scream ringing through Thorin's head.

“He will live, lad...”

Balin's low, carefully checked voice reached him after what seems days and must have been only a few hours. Hours of agony of him lying curled up on a small cot because Óin had ordered it, and because Thorin had no strength left to get up, his over-strained muscles screaming with each attempt to move.

He opened his eyes and Balin's hand found his face. Cradling his cheek that still looked so exposed and soft with his short-cropped beard. And Thorin leaned into the touch, feeling his eyes burn and the pain in his chest return tenfold with every word Balin added.

“A very nasty cut over the eye. His skull needing at least twenty stitches and his leg at least ten, not counting the bruises, the broken collarbone and the flesh-wounds on his thigh. But he will live. Already cursed Óin's needle.”

Thorin's sob matched Balin's – even though the elder Dwarf managed to make it pass for a chuckle. And Balin stroked his face and hair, on and on, feeling his young Prince shake helplessly with relief, and pain.

“I want to see him.

\- Tomorrow, lad. Let him sleep out.”

And Thorin yielded. Allowed Balin to hand him a cup of water that soothed the taste of iron and blood in his mouth, and then a warm bowl of soup Thorin was unable to finish, exhaustion and pain catching up with him.

He woke up crying, that night, crying and choking – and the hands cradling him were not Dwalin's but his little brother's. Frerin held him and stroked his hair, and never mocked him for calling out for Dwalin – just held him close, trying to soothe some of his fear.

Thorin staggering as he entered the tent the morning afterwards. Fundin gave him a nod, and when he came closer he reached out for his forearms, clasping them gently, bending his forehead so as to touch Thorin's.

“Thank you for saving my boy.”

The same sentence as twenty years ago, somewhere in Erebor, where it had all still looked like a game...

“I can't believe that.”

The voice coming from the cot was weak, and laced with pain – but it was still _his_ and Thorin felt his throat tighten as his heart leaped up.

“Dwalin...”, he whispered – and the next thing he knew he was on his knees close to him, as close as he could get, fingers hovering across Dwalin's blanket, afraid to hurt, to break, to touch…

His friend's head was wrapped in linen and one of his eyes was covered, but Dwalin's gaze did not leave Thorin's face and there was the faintest trace of a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“They say you lifted me and carried me all down the hill”, Dwalin voiced, carefully, and Thorin could tell from the slurred edges around his words that Óin had not been stingy with pain-droughts.

“I don't see how that is possible.

\- And why not?”

Thorin's words were strangled. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to cry, to shake Dwalin, to call him names because he had been scared, so scared to lose him, so scared to never hear that voice again… Instead he just knelt there, trying to even out his voice, and did not even notice his hand searched for Dwalin's forearm, stroking it gently.

“Because. I'm twice as heavy. And you're just a tiny sparrow, while I'm a heavy-limbed boar.

\- A bear”, Thorin whispered, trying to smile and to keep his lip from quivering. “There's more than meets the eye in sparrows. Time for you to start believing.

\- Hey. I always… _all ways_...” - Dwalin's voice was even more slurred and Thorin bent closer to him, his fingers rubbing soothing circles into his friend's shoulder.

“Hush now. Get some rest.

\- _Mmmmmh_ …”

It told a lot about Dwalin's state that he did not struggle, and closed his eyes almost instantly. And Thorin kept stroking his skin, feeling his body sag with relief now that he was sure Dwalin would keep there.

“Thorin...”

He frowned as Dwalin spoke his name with visible difficulty. He needed his rest. He wanted Dwalin to rest, and recover, and sleep until he got some of his strength back.

“Y'look awful. 'n I'm cold. Com'n'get some sleep.

\- Dwalin...

\- Please. 'm so fuzzy. 'm still down there in m'dreams. 'n they won't bother me'f'you're with me.

\- But you are hurt…

\- S're you. Don't s' no. I know y're 'cause I'm heavy and y're nothing but'tiny _spaaar-roow_.

\- All right. If you close your big mouth and sleep.”

Thorin was already lying close when he whispered those words. His body curled around Dwalin's uninjured side, determined to warm him up, and he felt a heavy hand settle on his back, dragging him even closer as Dwalin let out a satisfied sigh.

“Thoooo- riiin...

\- Sleep.

\- _Maikhmin_...”

And that soft little word made Thorin's eyes spill at last, as he felt his friend relax under his cheek, soon falling into a heavy slumber. He turned his head and let his hair hide his face, breathing in Dwalin's scent, his sweat, and his very warmth.

_Thank_ you _._

But Thorin never said the words aloud. He just knew he had them both out, out of that nightmare of war and blood and death, even if it was unclear for how long.

They were both out of there, for a tiny, blessed eternity of warmth and shelter.

  


  


*** * * * * ***

  


**_Azanulbizar, T.A. 2799_ **

  


He could not go on.

He could not. But he had to. And he would. Because he had to. Because relief and death were not something he deserved. Because the punishment for not being there and letting his brother bleed out against his chest was to live on, even when he could not.

“Lad?”

Thorin blinked. He had been sitting quietly in his tent, waiting for Balin to come and fetch him. He had no strength to walk the camp several times a-day – he had lost too much blood and had too many broken bones for that, and yet he could not bring himself to care.

Broken ribs that had almost pierced his lung - he wished he could have choked to death.

A shattered arm, loaded with splinters, his elbow smashed, his wrist twisted and broken, and his fingers stiff, swollen and blue, bent back one after the other - he wished his skull could have cracked instead.

His stomach raw and grazed with days of throwing up – because they insisted in giving him poppy, claiming it alleviated the pain, but it was all a lie. Some pains were there to stay and never go away, and this was one of them. In the end Thorin had refused everything. Water, food, tea, and poppy. Until they understood, and gave up. Until he had been sure they would not try it again, his lips sealed shut even as pain wrecked his body.

“Damn it, Thorin. It is water. Water. See? I'm drinking it, alright? Now please. Open. Your. Damned. Lips. And drink.”

Dwalin's hands on his shoulders. Shaking him. Forcing him to part his cracked lips, letting out a hoarse whisper.

“Go.

\- By Durin I won't.”

There were tears in Dwalin's eyes. Tears, and deep rings under his eyes. And Thorin knew his own face was probably even worse. They were both breaking. Or rather, he was broken, and Dwalin was beginning to break too. And usually Thorin would have cared. Usually it would have made his chest ache and his body tremble and he would have given everything to make Dwalin feel better.

But now he could not.

Now his heart was not even able to feel – he probably spat it out between two fits of vomiting, or let his ribs pierce right through it. Or maybe it was part of the ashes and smoke as well.

He would not know. He could not bring himself to care.

“It is water. It is just water. Please, Thorin. Please...”

Dwalin's voice was rough with tears, and breaking. But it was also close. And gentle. And pleading. So unlike him.

Maybe that was what made Thorin part his lips. The fear of having to see Dwalin beg, when he would have given him almost everything even without him asking. Maybe it was just weariness, or the awareness that it had to be.

But he had drunk. And it had indeed been nothing more than water, allowing the hallucinations, the dizziness and the nausea to pass, at last.

The pain was constant, though, and it wore Thorin out. But he had managed to get up and leave the tent after some days – because he knew he had to, even when he could not, because they were issues to discuss and the illusion of strength to maintain.

After all, Thráin still had one son.

And he was the heir.

There was no choice in that. No choice but trying to pretend he could go on.

“Laddie?”

Thorin lifted his face and Balin's eyes clouded. The elder Dwarf reached out, the back of his hand testing his forehead and cheek, and Thorin wished he could bring himself to care enough so as to turn his face. But he did not.

“Lad, should I fetch Óin? Forgive me for being so blunt, but you do not look well.

\- We have to meet the Blacklocks”, Thorin merely replied.

“Yes. But not at any cost. Lad...”

But Thorin only pushed himself up. True enough, he was staggering, and true enough, the tent spun around him, but he did not care.

Later he would remind the meeting as a blur of pain and sharp-edged words. He was speaking, and distantly marvelled at being able to form words and coherent thoughts, because he was not really feeling there. But apparently it made sense.

Apparently he fought hard, even though he was unable to save his people from ruin and heavy war-deeds, because the price of blood ever was a heavy one.

“The King should keep an eye on his heir...”, the Blacklock envoy voiced, eyes narrowed, and Thorin wished he could care.

“Is that a threat?”, Balin asked, voice deadly calm, and Dwalin growled close to Thorin's side.

“Merely concern”, the Blacklock answered. “I heard your wounds were heavy ones.

\- My wounds are not part of this negotiation.”

The ice in his own voice surprised even Thorin. The world was blurring around him and he was aware of the anger in the Blacklock's eyes, but also of Dwalin's warmth close to him, and of Balin's unvoiced concern.

“I did not cross the camp to listen to rumours and to feed gossips. The offer we give you is our last. Take it or leave it.”

Strange how having nothing left to lose made him strong, made others squirm under his gaze… In another life, in a life where his brother still breathed, he probably would have smiled inwardly. Instead, he drilled his eyes into the Blacklock's face and never lowered his gaze.

He would not remember the way back to his tent, not really. He just knew he had achieved it, somehow. And that they still were doomed to a life of begging and hardship, even with the contract brought down to the smallest amount of payment that was decent and proper.

He did not remember sinking to the ground either, once he was finally left alone. He just remembered the pain, flooding his arm, causing him to let out a low hiss, and to double up. Then his world blurred, and became nothing but hurt and heat.

“Thorin?”

A hand against his face, and a low curse. He was still cradling his arm against him and Dwalin forced his swollen fingers to open up, cursing again when he felt their heat.

It blurred. The world. His arm. Dwalin.

He heard someone scream, hoarsely, and never realised it was him. This time Mahal had mercy enough to let him pass out, while Óin cut his cast and butchered his arm, trying to drain pus and shards out, trying to stop infection from spreading.

It blurred, and Thorin sank into a red world of blood and fever, too weak to think, and feel anything but pain, and heat.

And a hand on his forehead, and on his cheek. On his lips as well, asking them gently to part so as to make room for a cool cup of water. Against his back, rubbing soothing circles when pain made him stifle broken moans, his teeth clenched and his body trembling all over.

And Thorin knew, deep inside.

That he could not go on. That it was too much for a Dwarf to bear.

But that, since there was also Dwalin – since there was no match against these able hands, that steady, loving will, that focused, kind and selfless care he showed him constantly – he would have to go on.

No matter the cost.

There was no choice in that.

  


*** * * * * * ***

  


_**Dunland, T. A. 2800** _

  


He could not find his way back.

To him. To them. To the place he should call home, because home was where his sister was. Where his ' _adad_ was. Where his brother was no more.

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut, as tightly as he could, and turned his head until his face was thoroughly buried in the folds of his fur-coat, smelling of sweat, earth and the road the road the road. He wanted to choke. He wanted to die. He wished his lungs could stop working, deflate like a broken bellows – he hated his body that survived, stubbornly, screaming for air, for water, for food.

For warmth. He was so cold...

Thorin coughed – just once, a muffled sound that could have been a sob, in a life where he still had tears. And then he turned his head, forced his whole body to turn and lay there, on his back, staring at the ceiling of that narrow, smelly room in the inn of Men he did not care about.

But Dwalin obviously did. Thorin could hear the sounds, the thin walls offering no privacy. He heard a high-pitched giggle and knew it was that woman, and a low growl. And rhythmic sounds as well – almost animal but that still made him feel he had no right to hear.

It had been going on for hours. Almost ever since he had withdrawn to the room, forcing dinner down into that body he could not afford to let die – because he had to bring back some money, because their deeds were so heavy that they needed every Dwarrow, every single strength and skill to survive.

Sometimes it came back up. Like that day in the Iron Hills where he had found his way back to Dwalin. Thorin did not even know what triggered it. He was not drinking, just a pint every now and then when it would have looked awkward and rude to just sit there – it gave him something to do, something to clench his hands around while his men were discussing the day and their plans.

He was not even eating that much. Sometimes he just forgot.

It just came back up. And it had no link with killing or injuries. He could not care less about lives of Men – the only ones that mattered to him were his men. And his men were safe tonight. Like most of the nights he had been lying just like he was now, wide-eyed and cold.

Maybe it was exhaustion. It had happened to him more than once, during war. But this was different. There was no logic in it. He was sitting quietly, and all seemed to be well, and then his stomach churned and it all came back up. Thankfully never before his men.

Save one.

“You alright?”

Thorin had spat out with a shudder, bent upon the water, and had rinsed his mouth without turning.

“Yes”, he had hissed, fiercely, and when he had turned Dwalin – his Dwalin – had almost taken a step back, the burn in Thorin's eyes hitting him full in the chest.

But Dwalin was a brave one, and his face that was now scarred and bearing tattoos beneath the mohawk he still made a point to grow never lowered, his brown gaze searching for Thorin's.

“Good”, he had let out, and it was almost soft.

And Thorin knew he did not believe him.

“I said I would take the first watch”, he said, and it was cold, and unfair, and hateful of him, but he did not now how to find his way back to him anymore – he just wanted him away, him and his kind gaze and his arms and hands and care, it was too much to bear…

“Aye”, Dwalin said, taking the hint instantly, his eyes shining with hurt. “I'd better catch some sleep then. I suppose.”

And with these words he had turned, leaving Thorin alone. With the cold and emptiness inside his chest and stomach that had become so familiar he could not really remember what it had been to live without.

Another muffled cry reached his ears and Thorin closed his eyes. It was Dwalin's right. Dwalin's absolute and complete right to find relief and pleasure where he wanted to. He deserved it. He was the bravest and kindest and worthiest person Thorin knew, his sister excepted.

_Frerin excepted_.

Another cough escaped his chest and Thorin balled his fists. No air. No air, and fire and blazes and embers and him, him, him, lying there so tiny so perfect so young, and it could not be it could not be it could not be and yet it was, and Thorin coughed again, trying to free his lungs from the grip telling him with each pitiful breath he took that his brother had gone.

Gone where there was no way to join him.

The door creaked what seemed ages afterwards and Thorin heard steps – slightly staggering, but strangely silent because Dwalin still held the hope he was asleep even when Thorin had given up long ago to find any rest except a few hours of blacking out, every now and then.

“ _Fuck_.”

The muttered curse Dwalin uttered when he hit the table would have made him smile. In another life. Where they would have both stumbled back to their rooms in the middle of the night – Thorin shaking his head at Dwalin's audacity, and Dwalin calling him a prude.

Instead Thorin just listened. To Dwalin taking off his boots and his tunic, unclasping his belt and then lying down on the mattress they had to share, careful not to touch him.

He was just inches away. Thorin just had to extend his arm and he knew Dwalin would have turned towards him, would have dragged him close to his chest and kept him there, stroking his hair just like every night he had needed it, in the Misty Mountains where they had lost everything.

But Thorin did not know how to do that anymore. All he could do was to listen. To Dwalin's snores that kicked in as soon as he assured himself Thorin was there and would not move.

Because he could not remember how it felt like to reach him.

  


  


*** * * * * * * ***

  


_**Dunland, T.A. 2802** _

  


He could not tell.

How it came that, even as he was shuffling through the snow with slow, tired steps, his eyes narrowed and the fresh wound on his back aching, something in his chest seemed to have shifted.

Thorin shuddered and Dwalin – warm, strong-limbed and steady Dwalin - lowered his pace until his steps stilled, and suddenly they were standing, standing there close to that frozen river.

Snowflakes in Thorin's hair, and in Dwalin's beard. And Dwalin's hard, round shoulder Thorin found himself leaning against, because he had not expected him to stop walking, and because his moves and reactions were clearly not as sharp as they should.

“Snow's getting thick”, Dwalin rumbled, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, and Thorin found himself unable to do anything but nod. “We should search for shelter. Now.”

He did not really look at him. It was still awkward, the way it did not snap, that long-lost bound between them – and Dwalin had ever been careful, careful not to chase him away with searching looks of concern, or with unsought touches.

There had been no word. No move. No special moment either. They had just passed, these few years of endless roaming, of Thorin staring wide-eyed in the darkness and of Dwalin leaning into any arms he could get – any arms but Thorin's.

And Thorin was still unable to tell. What had shifted inside him, these past weeks, what had made the weight in his chest lift, a tiny bit. How it came that he had been, at last, able to feel _something_ deep inside, something whispering haltingly _I_ _still_ _want that_.

Maybe the fact that they were alone, this time, with no men under his command. Maybe it was the snow – snow always unnerved him, reminded him of that terrible winter long ago, just after Dragon-Fire, and Thorin _did_ feel indeed when anxious…

Maybe it had been his own recklessness. The merchants they had escorted this time were wealthy, and the attack on their caravan had been fierce. And something in the frightened gaze of one of the children – a son, grey-eyed and tiny – had thrown Thorin into such a fury of death and blood that he had not even thought. He had urged his body into the fight, taking them down, all of them, not even waiting for Dwalin to take his deadly position at his left – he would take them all down, one after the other, until fear would be banned from these grey eyes…

But they had been travelling for weeks, and his body was exhausted. His left arm had been aching for the past days – the bones healed, but prone to hurt whenever cold crept into them, and his two last fingers were numb ever since war… He had taken them down, one after the other – but not alone.

With Dwalin, who had thrown himself in the battle with a growl, deadly and blazing with rage as well – and it had taken a while for Thorin to register the burning pain on his back, the way warm blood was slowly coating his waist and thigh.

A while longer even to do something about it. He had been glad for the pain, and had hated himself for it. Had not breathed a word – had assured himself the Men were fine, and had urged them on, his icy voice betraying nothing of the hurt and blazing rage he was still feeling somewhere deep inside.

They had reached the city, and their roads had parted. It was always like this – Thorin would never meet that tiny boy again, and would forget about the Men as soon as payment was given. But this time, instead of walking on, Dwalin had turned towards him.

“ _Fuck_ , Thorin”, he had growled, and something in Thorin's chest had shifted.

He had been so glad. So glad to earn a rude word, instead of concern and silence. He was fed up with being cared for, fed up with being followed – he wanted him to shout, wanted him to get angry, to see him finally as the undeserving friend and Dwarf he was…

He could not tell. How they had ended up in that small room Dwalin had insisted to take, him lying on his stomach, bare-chested and clammy-skinned, while Dwalin stitched him up, carefully, his eyes still shining with cold fury.

But what Thorin _could_ tell was the way these hands had softened. When they had felt him flinch slightly at their touch, and when Dwalin had realized he was shuddering under his fingers.

“Hey...”

His voice had no right to be so soft. It had made something deep inside Thorin ache, something screaming silently _I want that_ _despite emptiness_ – and he had focused on his breathing, steadily, as always, his fingers curled around the rough blanket of the bed.

“Something to bite on?”

Thorin had just shaken his head and Dwalin had sighed.

“Why did you do that?”, he had asked, very quietly, and his palm was pressing a clean rag against Thorin's half-stitched wound that was still bleeding heavily. “Why did you not wait – Thorin, I am supposed to fight _at your side_.

\- You do. You did.”

Thorin's voice had come faint, but firm, and Dwalin had simply sighed again.

“Fuck, sparrow. _Fuck_ , alright?!”

But his hands had told a different story. Wiping blood gently from his back, and resuming their careful stitching – not stopping out of misplaced concern, simply working steadfastly, until Dwalin had released a deep sigh, placing a warm palm on Thorin's shoulder.

“Done, _uzbadê_.”

Thorin had released his lower lip from the painful bite it was suffering and made a move to sit up, but Dwalin had restrained him, pushing him gently back on the bed.

“Hey. Let me dress it first. Better cover those stitches up. They look awful. I'm not Óin, you know? Could have lived without them…”

And Thorin had let him. Dress his wound. Touch him with the gentle, caring moves he had missed so much. Because he needed him. Because he wanted him. Because Dwalin was Thorin's only way to forget these frightened grey eyes, reminding him of others…

“Hey. _Hey_.”

Somehow he had found his way back into his shirt, into his tunic, into his leather jerkin. Somehow his hands were shaking too badly to clasp his belt, and felt frozen and numb instead. And somehow… Somehow there were hands against his back, arms around his chest and Dwalin's warmth, Dwalin's embrace, Dwalin's very _scent_ , placing a hand on the back of his head and dragging his face against his neck.

And Thorin had wept.

For the rage inside him, and the way it burned without giving him any warmth. For the fear in these grey eyes, so young, _far too young_ , that would never be able to shine again. For his own weakness, because he could not begin to feel sorry for the blood he had lost, and still wished to have bled out, here or there, it did not matter, he did not care and yet he had to…

And for the relief it was. To feel some warmth at last. To be grounded and held. To have someone else setting the cape – because they had to, _he_ had to, and there was no choice in that, no way around, no escape…

He had missed him so much.

And Thorin could not tell why it had been happening now, why here, years after horror and blood, after unshed tears and unspoken nightmares, but it had.

It had, and Thorin had not fought against it. Instead, he had tried to tell Dwalin – his fingers clenching his tunic tightly, his face pressed fiercely into his neck, even as broken sobs wrecked his chest.

Had tried to tell him he was ready, ready to let him closer, ready to let him fight at his side again, because he could not do without him – never had and never would.

That he would try hard to be worthy of him – worthy to be called a Prince, a leader, but above all a friend, and someone deserving to have him at his side.

He had no tattoos to bare his grief and tell the world what he had lost – Thorin wore nothing but scars, never had and never would. It had hurt too much to see them inked on Dwalin's face and skull, a mute proof that he had failed him, had deserted him in his grief, locked up in his own pain instead.

And Thorin did not know how to tell what had been causing his sobs to surge, wave after wave, caught deep into Dwalin's embrace and Dwalin's warmth.

But what he had managed to whisper was the core of it all, the bane that Dwalin tried so desperately to chase away, without succeeding. Still trying though. Always trying.

“Forgive me. Forgive me. Dwalin. Forgive me.”

Night had found them both still sitting on the bed, Dwalin against the wall and Thorin curled into his arms, his cheek leaning against Dwalin's shoulder. They had not spoken and Thorin had not moved, his eyes open but unfocused, and Dwalin's hand running through his hair, quietly.

Keeping him grounded.

He had fallen into a heavy, dreamless sleep, exhausted beyond measure, and had woken up in Dwalin's arms, covered in sweat and feeling light-headed.

“I… Thorin, I'm sorry.”

But Thorin had simply shaken his head. It was just a light fever, and without Dwalin he would have been in a far worse shape than that. So they had walked on. Leaving the city for wilderness, and even as Thorin's back ached, even as his exhausted body wanted nothing but to lean against Dwalin _again_ and rest, he could not find it in him to feel anything but trust, and gratefulness.

Dwalin nudged him gently towards the ground and Thorin found himself unable to resist.

“Sit down. There are some rocks over there. Let me see what I can find.

\- Don't...

\- I'll be back in a minute.”

And he was. Had told him there was a small cave where they could spread their furs and spend the night – had helped him back on his feet and had led him there. Under rock and stone, helping him to shed his chain-mail that was only spreading cold into his bones, and then forcing him to sit, while he was closing the narrow entrance with his own fur-coat.

“Like good old times.”

And Thorin had almost smiled. Tiredly, through a haze of fever and exhaustion. He could not tell what it was, what made it so easy this time – maybe the cave, maybe the two of them.

But he had curled himself around Dwalin, resting his head against his chest, allowing him to spread Thorin's fur-coat upon them both. Heat soon spread between them, and Dwalin felt for Thorin's forehead, letting out a quiet chuckle when he turned his head, too tired to bat his hand away.

“You know you are _impossible_.”

Thorin felt Dwalin's voice rumble through his chest, and it took him a while to gather enough strength to fight fever's dizziness and lick his parched lips, and even longer to mouth the words, but in the end he achieved it, even though slightly slurred :

“ _Fuck_ , Dwalin.”

He could not tell what it was, but it was there. It was back, or still there, Thorin would not know. All Thorin knew was that he was grateful, and would fight to keep it there, never to lose it again.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Uzbadê : my King.


End file.
